Goodbye, Freak
by badgermushroom
Summary: Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade visit the grave. Post "Reichenbach Falls", so spoilers for that, I suppose. Could be slight slash if you squint really hard.
1. Anderson

A/N: I figured that with the ending of the third episode of season two there would be a bunch of these types of fics popping up, and I couldn't resist writing one from a somewhat unusual point of view. Actually, pretty much the only thing I've been wondering (apart from "Where the fuck is season three!") has been, "Well, what does Anderson have to say about all this?" Not normal, I know. But I couldn't resist, so here it is! Hopefully not too OOC, but I'll let you guys be the judges of that.

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><p>Anderson sighed as the cab pulled up outside the cemetery. Tossing some bills at the driver, he grabbed the bouquet sitting next to him and got out of the taxi. He knew he shouldn't have bothered with flowers, but he also knew how irked Sherlock would have been to know someone had done something as sentimental as put flowers on his grave, so he couldn't resist, really.<p>

Walking through the marble rows of tombstones, he wondered, not for the first time, why exactly he had allowed Lestrade to talk him into doing this. It was no secret the animosity that the forensic technician and consulting detective harbored for one another, which made it all the more perplexing the DI had even bothered, never mind the fact that Anderson was actually here.

Arriving at the tombstone, Anderson took a moment to stare at the freshly turned dirt and the clean, unworn slab of marble. It struck him then how very plain the stone was. There were no words explaining who Sherlock had been. Just the name: Sherlock Holmes. Nothing to denote what an extraordinary and infuriating and great man now lay beneath his feet. There was no date of birth, or death, and he realized he had never know how old Sherlock was. Despite the great many things he undoubtedly would never know about Sherlock Holmes, this particular fact bothere him, for some reason. So Anderson just stood there for a good long while, just staring at the simple tombstone of the man he had once thought he despised, but really didn't know at all.

"Well, freak," he began finally. "Here we are." It felt exceptionally odd to hear his voice in the quiet of the cemetery. He continued anyway. "I bet you never expected to see me here, did you? All your _deductions_ and _observations_. Probably never would have deduced _this _outcome, eh?" Anderson paused, half-expecting a biting and sarcastic voice telling him how wrong he was and what an idiot he was being, and _of course_ he had already foreseen this outcome, something deduced by the way Anderson was wearing his tie, or some other such nonsense.

"You were wrong about one thing though," Anderson began again. "I never hated you, not really. Disliked, yes, jealous of, definitely. I was one of the best forensic techs the force had until you came along, you know. Then one day you come swooping into the crime scene, all coat and scarf and amazingly brilliant deductions, and suddenly you're Lestrade's golden boy and I'm obsolete." Anderson stopped again, gathering up the words he had actually come to say, the words he would never have dreamed of saying to the consulting detective while he was alive.

Taking a deep breath, Anderson let the words spill out. "I always thought you were brilliant. You thought I didn't see, thought I was too wrapped up in my hatred for you, in the 'mundane' things in life, but I noticed. How could I not? I admired you. You could do my job twice as well in a fifth of the time, and I'll admit I was jealous, but I never could have ignored the sheer _brilliance_ of it all. And by the time I realized that, people expected me to hate you, so I did. Kept up the charade and all that. No doubt you'd be bored by the triviality of it all." He paused again to collect his thoughts, feeling oddly liberated now that he was admitting all of this out loud, even if Sherlock couldn't hear him.

"I never really believed you were a fake, if you can believe that. I've seen you work, seen that mind of yours come to all those clever deductions, and I know that you could never have faked it. And for what it's worth, I am sorry. I know I stood with Donovan and her accusations against you, but I never really doubted your intelligence or ability. No doubt you'd be hate the emotion of all this, in particular in it being said by _me_, the idiot forensics guy, but I think it needs to be said." Anderson paused once more to take a deep breath. "You were a great man Sherlock Holmes. A good one, even," he risked, using words overheard from Lestrade on the first case in which John Watson had appeared. "And I know that the world- well, London or Scotland Yard, at least- will miss you." With that, Anderson leaned forward and placed the flowers he had brought in front of the far too plain tombstone.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," he said, straightening up. He stayed for a moment longer before turning and leaving, never noticing the tall, coat-clad man standing among the trees.

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><p>AN: Yeah, so, as you may have guessed by now, I never really thought Anderson was that bad of a guy, just a little jealous of Sherlock for pretty much taking his job, but obviously he could never have told Sherlock that to his face.

So, love it? Hate it? Want me to suffer in the lowest regions of Tartarus for writing it? Let me know!

badgermushroom out! :d


	2. Donovan

So, thanks to the people who have reviewed, I have decided I have no choice but to make more chapters from different points of view. So, first up will be a one-shot from the perspective of Donovan, then one for Lestrade, then one for Sherlock himself. Also, just so you're forewarned there may or may not be mentions of one-sided Lestrade/Sherlock, because I am truly a slash fangirl at heart. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

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><p>Sally Donovan didn't visit the grave until over a week after the funeral. She hadn't planned on doing so, but eventually guilt (paired with sad looks from Lestrade (the man knew how to guilt-trip, she had to give him that)) won her over. So now here she stood, staring at the tombstone, noticing the two drying bouquets laying in front of it and wondering idly who would have bothered to leave flowers for someone like Sherlock. She stayed silent for a few minutes, kicking at the still-loose dirt, trying to decide what, if anything, she could possibly say.<p>

"I'm only here because Lestrade asked me to come," she began eventually, mostly speaking just to break the silence. "I'll never understand it, the hold you had over him. Five minutes into the first case and he was practically smitten." She paused for a second, wondering what exactly she was trying to accomplish by being here, saying these things to someone who couldn't hear her. But, she supposed, she had promised Lestrade and that still counted for something at least.

"I just want to know how you did it," she sighed eventually. "How could a man spend six years of his life pretending to be a genius to solve crimes he had committed while simultaneously deceiving the entire London police force into believing he was a detective? And what would he gain from doing that? It just doesn't make sense anymore. I was so certain that you were a fraud, a psychopath who would do something like this just for the thrill of it, to get your rocks off, or whatever. Now I don't know."

"Just who _were_ you, Sherlock Holmes?" she finally asked, the one thing she really wanted to know, the one question to which she would never receive the answer. "I don't even know if I really believe that you were a fraud anymore. The idea is a bit of an oxymoron really, when you think about it. Only someone as brilliant as you claimed to be could have pulled off something this elaborate without getting caught, but if you really were that brilliant you wouldn't have needed to fake it in the first place. Funny, that."

"For what it's worth, I am sorry things happened the way they did. I know it's a rather inadequate apology considering the circumstances but it's the best I've got. I really never intended for things to escalate the way they did. If I had had any idea this would have been the end result I'm not sure I would have bothered to question the evidence. I was just trying to be thorough. You know, trying to do my job. Or rather, the job I used to have before you became Lestrade's one-man crime-solving team. "

"Since there's no point in lying now, I can't say I'll particularly miss having you around. Can't say I intended to get rid of you this way, either. I really am sorry about that." Having nothing else to say, Donovan stood in front of the tombstone for a few more moments.

"Well freak, I guess this is goodbye." With that Donovan turned and left, feeling slightly less guilty than when she arrived, but just as confused.

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><p>AN: Um…yeah. No doubt you can tell that I wasn't really as into this one. I don't really like Donovan that much (though for some strange reason I do like Anderson. I'm insane, go figure.) so it was a bit harder for me to write this one, which is also why more of it is dialogue. Didn't really feel like going for the whole shebang. But, Lestrade is up next and I love Lestrade, so hopefully that one will be better. :p

So, love it? Hate it? Want to sacrifice me to the vicious chicken of Bristol for writing it? Let me know!

-badgermushroom out! :d


	3. Lestrade

A/N: I have nothing to say right now… Huh… Well, enjoy I guess!

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><p>It had taken Lestrade far longer than he had intended to visit Sherlock's grave. He hadn't meant to let so much time pass, but ever since Sherlock had been made into a fraud, his life had become an uphill battle trying to prove to his superiors Sherlock had been the brilliant consulting detective he had been rather than the manipulative liar Moriarty had construed him to be. Not that arguing the point was doing Lestrade much good. His superiors, along with the rest of London, had made their decision about Sherlock, and at this point Lestrade would consider himself lucky if he could get away with a demotion. As it was, he was fully expecting to be asked to resign at the very least, though he wasn't even sure he would be afforded that decency anymore.<p>

But for the moment he just needed to be away from that ordeal. He had over an hour until his next meeting (hopefully the one where they would just fire him already and end it) and he decided it was as good a time as any to visit the grave, despite the fact it had begun to rain. Mindless of the wet he knelt down in front of the tombstone and spent a few minutes just staring at the name engraved on the otherwise plain black marble.

A part of the Detective Inspector still didn't want to believe that it was true, that the most brilliant, infuriating, clever, annoying, amazing man he had ever know could actually be dead. The other part of his brain knew it was irrational. He had seen the body, attended the funeral, watched John Watson fall to pieces. He knew it all had to be real. Six years after breezing into Lestrade's life and now he was gone, dead, just like that. And by his own, no less. That was the thing that plagued the DI's mind the most. Ever since he had first met Sherlock, little more than a recovering drug addict at the time, Lestrade had always had his fears that Sherlock would die some violent or gruesome death. But in all the scenarios his mind could conjure (which were a fair few, considering his line of work) he had never imagined that Sherlock would take his own life. And part of Lestrade couldn't, and probably never would, accept that fact.

"Sherlock." That was all Lestrade said. The next thing he knew there tears running down his face, mixing with the rain. He stayed that way for a long while, letting himself cry as memories of Sherlock flashed through his mind. Sherlock, the man he had admired the most, the genius who hadn't even bothered to learn Lestrade's first name. He let out a half-chuckle, half-sob at that particular memory. It had been so painful to realize that after so many years spent working with and wholeheartedly trusting Sherlock that Sherlock seemed to care so little about the DI. And yet, it had been so very typical of the man to not remember something as common as a colleague's name.

Finally Lestrade's tears subsided and he stood, moving closer to the grave. He knelt down again and traced the name carved there with his fingers just once before straightening and got ready to leave. With a heavy sigh, he turned and began preparing himself for another afternoon of defending Sherlock to people who didn't care. And as he gathered his resolve, feeling more conviction than he had in days, Lestrade could have sworn he saw the flash of a black coat through the trees surrounding the cemetery.

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><p>AN: So, there that is… Still have nothing new to say…Oh, wait, I do, actually. Only one chapter left! Be excited.

So, love it? Hate it? Want to burn me as a witch because I turned you into a newt (you got better) for writing it? Let me know!

-badgermushroom out! :d


	4. Sherlock

A/N: So, I actually finished this at about the same time as the last chapter, but I thought I'd give it time to sit and age a bit between postings (because apparently stories are like a fine wine? I don't know.). Anyhoo, enjoy the final installment!

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><p>Sherlock knew it was slightly irrational to spend so much time coming back to his own grave, listening as people gave what they thought was their final goodbye. But he also knew that this was a rather unique opportunity that would he would likely never experience again. Initially he had gone to make sure that everyone, John especially, was convinced he was dead, but as it went on, he found himself fascinated.<p>

The first visitors had been Mrs. Hudson and John, something Sherlock had been expecting. What he hadn't expected was his own reaction at John's words. Hearing the broken tone, the pleading words, he had desperately wanted to reveal to his friend that he was alive, but he held back. It was imperative that John believe he was dead because if John knew he wasn't dead then soon enough Moriarty's men would know, and then John would be killed. So Sherlock refrained from revealing he was still alive. Barely.

Much to his surprise, the second person to visit his grave was none other than Anderson, bearing flowers, no less. Expecting some new declaration of hate or gloating, Sherlock was quite surprised to hear what the forensic technician had to say. He had never particularly cared about Anderson, the man barely registered to him on any level, always had been categorized in Sherlock's mind as a mere annoyance. Yet he found himself feeling oddly touched as Anderson revealed the truth of his admiration for Sherlock and his faith that Sherlock hadn't been faking his skills of deduction. He even felt vaguely proud of Anderson for proving himself much more thoughtful than the detective had given him credit for.

The last person to come had been Lestrade, which Sherlock found rather odd. He had been expecting the Inspector quite a bit sooner, but that hardly mattered. Lestrade turned out to be a bit of a surprise all around. He had expected something similar to John's speech, or some long, emotional goodbye. What he had certainly _not_ expected was for Lestrade to start sobbing. He had know Lestrade for a long time, and he had always known the DI to be very level-headed and stable, on top of the fact that he had never seen the man all that upset, let alone crying. Only one word had been uttered the entire time Lestrade had been there, just Sherlock's name. And as he watched Lestrade run his hand over the tombstone, Sherlock felt a single answering tear run down his own cheek amidst the drops of water already there. When Lestrade finally stood up, Sherlock turned away, finding himself unable to face the man he had taken for granted for so long as emotion swept through him. He began to walk away, listening to Lestrade's steps echo his own until eventually Sherlock was alone and all he could hear was the rain.

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><p>AN: Sigh. Another fic completed. I shall miss this story, and the reviews it has brought me. Speaking of which, thank you to all who have reviewed, and/or favorited! I love you guys so much. More than I love Rupert Graves. But only by a tiny bit more.

Oh, and before anyone gets ishy about it, Sherlock wasn't there when Donovan visited the grave, and Mycroft never visited because, in my opinion, Mycroft would be the one person to know if Sherlock was still alive. Cameras all over the city and whatnot.

For anyone interested, I've got a slightly more humorous and slash-y fic in the working, so keep an eye out if you'd like!

So, love it? Hate it? Want to dress me in lederhosen and dropkick me into a fjord for writing it? Let me know!

-badgermushroom out! :d


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